I Do
by Iheartkarmy
Summary: SEQUEL TO "SAY YES". It's been more than a year since Amy and Karma's ill fated weekend in NYC. Now, as Amy returns to California and Karma has settled back in Austin, is there any hope they'll be able to reconnect or fix their broken friendship or ever be something more?
1. Chapter 1

**_This is the sequel to Say Yes, so if you haven't read that, you might want to start there. It starts off a bit over a year from the end of Say Yes and I'll be filling in the blanks about that year as we go. Comments and feedback and angst filled reviews always welcome._**

For the first time in over a year, Amy walks off a plane without a pain in her heart.

There's no nerves rattling round in her stomach, no anxious worry that this is the wrong place or she's making a horrible mistake (or that she already _made_ one and any chance of coming back from it dove from the plane like D. B. fucking Cooper) or that the end of the concourse will be the end of her.

Metaphorically speaking, of course.

Mostly.

For the first time in over a year, Amy doesn't have the urge to turn around and run back to the safety of the plane, to her tray table in the upright position and her seat belt securely fastened. She doesn't feel the need to beg the flight attendants to let her stay, to offer to join the crew free of charge, just as long as she doesn't have to disembark, as long as no one looks for her till they're at thirty five thousand and climbing and she's somewhere, _anywhere._

Anywhere but here.

More than a year ago she walked off a plane and didn't know what to expect. She didn't know who (if _anyone_ ) would be waiting for her or where (if _anywhere_ ) she could go or call home.

She steps onto the moving walkway, content to let it roll her along and it isn't like it was that _other_ time, not like it was more than a year ago, when she let it take her, when she watched the people all in a rush, racing past her, and she prayed (actually _prayed_ ) that she'd never have to get off, that it would just keep rolling and rolling and rolling and somehow roll her _back_ , back to before she fucked everything up, before she made one wrong call after another, back back _back._

Now, when she gets to the end, when she has to use her own feet to move herself along, Amy does so with ease, without hesitation, without worry. She steps off onto solid ground and, for the first time in over a year, she _knows_ that she's home.

There was a while, a long one (longer than she likes to think about) when she didn't know if she'd ever call California home again, when she didn't know if any _place_ could ever hold that title because the only home, the only _real_ one she'd ever known…

Well… it was gone.

 _She_ was gone.

Except gone wasn't really the right word. It (she) wasn't _gone_ , it (she) had _left._ It (she, for _fuck's sake)_ had stolen away in the middle of the night (like Amy'd always thought she might) leaving nothing but a diamond and a note (like Amy had _never_ thought she might), but it wasn't _just_ a note, it wasn't just words scrawled on paper to try and explain the inexplicable. It was an order, a command, a fucking two word ( _two!_ ) summation of more than fifteen years.

 _Say yes_

There was a while, a long one, when Amy had carried that note with her everywhere, tucked in her wallet or a pocket or clutched in her fist, just on the off chance she'd run into Karma, on the slightest chance that her once best friend would show up, all teary eyed and remorseful and begging forgiveness.

She never did.

At least not that Amy knew.

Amy carried that note for months, she took it with her everywhere. Back to Cali and then back to Austin and then back to Cali again and then, finally, to Brazil. To Maisie and then her mother and then Maisie again and then to her father and a summer and a chance to clear her mind and make, once and for all, a fucking _choice._ That note had been her constant companion and she'd taken enough psych courses to know that it was probably some deep seeded separation-based bullshit, a way of keeping _her_ close even when she was nowhere fucking near.

It was, after all, the only thing she had left of Karma. There was _nothing_ else. No pictures (burned), no mementos (trashed), no social media (cut the fuck off). For a long while no one even dared say her name (except Maisie) (and Lauren) (they _dared_ ) (they dared a fucking _lot_ ) and so yeah, maybe she clung to it, maybe she held onto it even when she knew she shouldn't.

It was OK. No one knew. No one but her.

And what they didn't know couldn't hurt her.

Right?

Right.

It was there, that note, _always_ there, but Amy's pockets are empty now and she can only imagine the confusion on the face of that cute Brazilian waitress (Ana or Paula or Ana Paula or _something,_ Amy was fuck all with names) who'd probably found it, tucked in with the the credit card slip in that cantina on the coast.

Say yes to what, Amy imagines her wondering.

Say yes to what?

Excellent fucking question.

She crosses through to baggage claim, her eyes drifting to the sun rippling through the giant windows at the end of the airport. She'd had sun in Brazil, sun sun and a little more sun (and enough rain to drown her sorrows and shame her tears) but there's something about the Cali sunlight. It's brighter somehow, clearer, and today, without that pain in her heart (or note in her pocket) Amy feels a little like it's shining down just for her.

She pauses in the middle of the airport and laughs at herself. A little too much rum, she thinks. Too much rum and too much sun and too much time wandering beaches and coves and Islands upon islands upon islands.

For a while, not a very long one, but still a while, Amy thought she'd be happy to never leave Brazil (and yes, she suspected that had as much to do with not knowing for sure she had somewhere to _leave_ for as it did with actually wanting to _stay_.) She imagined wasting away the rest of her days on one of the beaches (or maybe several of them or _all_ of them, though that would take years, but time… she had _a lot_ of that), sipping drinks and taking photos for the tourists. They'd have all thought she was one of them, just another soul lingering there just long enough to forget why she'd boarded that flight in the first place.

But then she'd thought of Cali. Of school. Of her friends, of Jodi and Becks and Jess. Of Lauren and how they'd left it and of Maisie and how they… hadn't. She thought of her balcony and those palms and that sun.

She thought of the note.

And she said yes. Yes to her life and yes to her home and yes to moving on and letting go.

Her phone goes off in her pocket, Everclear's _Father of Mine_ ringing out in the terminal. Hank tried (so very hard) for weeks to get her to change it but when she finally did and he found himself rewarded with Madonna's _Papa Don't Preach_ he conceded defeat.

Amy doesn't bother answering. She just spent three months with the man and yeah, she loves him, and yeah, it was the best time they ever had, but she's just a little sick of his voice so she just taps a quick reply. _Made it home. All safe. Thanks again. Love you dad._

The phone rings again before she can put it away and her eyes light up and a smile as bright as that sun (just for her) crosses her face as she reads the text.

 _You here?_

She stops next to the baggage carousel, not even looking as her suitcase rolls on by and runs her finger along the screen, texting out her answer.

 _Yeah. Just landed. Should be on the road in a few._

She pauses, considering her words carefully cause, honestly, she's not sure they're _there_ yet cause it was kinda new (and fragile) when she left and it's been three months...

But fuck it.

 _Can't wait to be home. Missed you._

The reply comes almost before she hits send.

 _Missed you too. A lot._

A blink. A moment. A second. And then…

 _See you in a few. Love you._

This time around she spots her bag and grabs it up, tugging it toward the cab stand as she types out her last reply before stuff in the phone away.

 _Love you too._

For the first time in over a year, Amy walks out of an airport with a smile on her face and hope in her heart.

And she's got just enough faith left to think that it all might just last. For the first time in _forever,_ Amy _believes._

* * *

Karma watches the clock from the wings, counting down the time until it's her turn on stage, until she gets her three minutes and eleven seconds worth of relief for the week. She fumbles with her guitar, turning it over in her lap, her fingers running lightly over the strings and stares at the clock on the Twain's wall.

And does the math.

It's been over a year and she still does it, every fucking time. She thought she'd be over it by now...and that's a total _lie_ , she _knew_ she wouldn't be over it, she'd _never_ be over it… and by 'it', she absolutely means _her_ and by 'never' she means… well…

 _Never_.

It's been over a year and Karma has dropped out of school, moved back to Austin, gone to work for her parents (Good Karma has gone legit, no more pot and no more truck, they've got an actual store, more of a diner really, and - thanks to Karma - it might actually stay open long enough to turn a profit) and not spoken a single word _to_ (though she has spoken _at least_ a thousand words _about_ ) Amy Raudenfeld.

And she still does the math. Every fucking time she sees a clock or a watch or even the lock screen on her fucking phone, she still turns it over in her mind, figuring what time it is for Amy (wherever she is) and yes, it makes her heart hurt _more_ but then she thinks maybe (not _maybe_ ) she deserves it.

It's her penance.

Karma sits in the wings, watching the clock and doing the math and listening to the guy on stage as he sings his way through… _something_. She doesn't really listen, she never does, but she can hear enough to know he's not bad, but he's not _good_ either and most of the crowd (always bigger on Wednesday nights) has turned a deaf ear, knowing from the first three notes that it's nothing special. They're nodding along, giving good listen, but really they're just waiting him out.

"You know, right?" Ivy said to her just before she left Karma there, waiting in the wings. "You know they're here just to see you."

She did _know_ (not that _she'd_ ever say it out loud), she knows that Singer Showcase Night has, basically, become Karma Ashcroft Night even if she doesn't really understand how or why cause there's at least three or four singers just as good (or better) than her. There's Katie and Ellie and that Bailey girl from last week wasn't bad but it doesn't seem to matter, not to the crowds, not to the ones who sit through act after act, all polite and proper but they're all really just sitting on their hands, waiting. Waiting for _her_.

It's a weird sort of thrill, being the big fish in the tiny pond and it's the sort of feeling Karma didn't ever imagine she'd _have_ , much less _like_. But every Wednesday night, she takes center stage and settles herself on that tiny stool with her guitar and that spotlight and for three minutes and eleven seconds (this week's tune) or four minutes and five seconds (last week) or nine minutes and thirteen seconds (three weeks ago when she got to do an encore cause the guy slotted after her bolted and they needed to fill the time) Karma gets to stare into the dark and pretend.

It's what she does best. Pretend. She pretends that every song she sings isn't about _her_ , even if none of them could ever be about _anyone else_. She pretends that she likes working in the diner that now sports her name, she pretends she doesn't miss NYC (though, really, it's only Ash and Davis that she really misses, the rest is… ruined… now), she pretends that she thinks one day she'll wake up and not feel like there's a part of her missing, roaming around out there in the world somewhere, never to be seen or heard or touched again. Karma sings every song like it isn't the last one she thinks she'll ever sing and she pretends that every time the lights come back up she's not praying Amy will somehow just be there, pretends that every time she's not (which is _every_ time) it doesn't break her heart just a little more.

She's been pretending for more than a fucking year and if she's ever gonna hit that 'pretend so much she starts to believe it' point… well… she really wishes _that_ would hurry the fuck up and get here. More than a year ago, huddled beneath the old comforter on Davis's bed with nothing but tears and pain to keep her company, Karma imagined that by _now_ , by this far off point in the future that she might not be _over it_ (cause _never_ ) but she thought at least there wouldn't be some new fresh pain every day, she wouldn't still be finding new and different and fucking _awful_ ways to break her heart even more, to crush the shattered shards of it into so much fine powder.

She remembers _that_ day _every_ day and every day it hurts like it's _today_. She remembers hiding in his bed and watching the clock and trying (so hard) not to do the math anymore (and trying even harder not to throw up _again_.) He'd left her, headed off to the gym a few hours earlier, telling her to stay as long as she wanted and (mercifully) not asking any (more) questions. He'd been nothing but good to her, probably better than she deserved cause, _really_ , who opens the door to their sobbing ex (if that's even what she was to him) in the middle of night and then holds her while she wails and pukes and wails some more.

Davis, Karma remembers, was the kind of friend anyone would be lucky to have and she misses him terribly. Just not as much as he'd like and so maybe, she thinks, it's good that they haven't spoken since she moved back, maybe it's good that she only gets updates (fewer and farther between all the time) on him from Ashlyn. She's hurt him enough, she knows that.

Besides guitar (and apparently running a new age diner) (and pretending, can't forget _that_ one) that's her one great skill. Breaking the hearts of the good ones.

She did that math that day too, watching the clock on the bedside table and running the numbers in her head. Karma remembers seeing the time change, watching it go from five-fifty-nine to six, remembers thinking Amy should have landed by then and even though for her it was six, evening headed to night, it was still afternoon for Amy, still plenty of time in the day. More than enough time to… well… to…

To _what_ , exactly? Karma remembers thinking… _wondering_ … what the _fuck_ did she think Amy was going to do with all that _time_?

Call her? Send a coast to coast text?

'Hey, Karma, I know you fucked me like twelve hours ago and then walked out on me like nine hours ago, and if I'd bothered to check Facebook between now and then (like I would _ever_ do that), then I'd know you unfriended me like five hours ago and if you _could_ go back to your place, you'd have probably burned your sheets and your clothes and your fucking mattress like two hours ago, but I just wanted you to know.'

'I made it OK. I made it _home_.'

Karma watched that clock for hours. It was old school with numbers that flipped over as the time changed. She remembers hearing the slight flutter of the little plastic numbers and falling asleep in that bed (on the few occasions she'd spent the night.) She remembered counting between the flips, one and two and three, always wondering if she'd get to sixty just as there'd be another, just _in time_.

She almost never did. She was almost always a count or two ahead or behind and never on time and really, wasn't that just the story of _everything_?

She remembers (too fucking well) the sound of her phone buzzing behind her on the bed. She hadn't touched it in hours, not since the first few calls from Ashlyn, not since her roomie had come home to find Amy sitting on Karma's bed.

"She's crying like someone died, K," Ash said. "I almost called 911."

Like someone died. Not an entirely inaccurate description, Karma thought. But then Ash kept calling and Karma stopped answering, always terrified that she would actually put Amy on the phone and she'd barely had the strength (fuck _that_ , call it like it is, the fucking _weakness_ , the fucking _insecurity_ and _terror_ and _I'm doing the right thing for her_ bullshit) to get out of the apartment in the first place. If she'd actually heard Amy's voice…

It's been more than a year and there's almost nothing Karma misses _more_ than the sound of Amy's voice.

Ash had taken the hint, eventually, and stopped calling after the sixth or seventh time, stopped texting after the first hour. And Amy…

Amy hadn't called at all.

It had been Raudenfeld radio silence since the moment she'd fallen asleep and Karma knew that wouldn't change and she wasn't really surprised and she didn't really blame Amy (she knew where the blame really lay.) If she was Amy, she doubted she'd call either. After all, when it came right down to it, Karma had done _exactly_ what Amy had said she would.

 _When my tears are dried and there's hope in my soul again, you can do what you do best. You can break my heart. Again._

Karma guesses she should add _that_ to her list of skills.

She remembers (no matter how hard she tries to forget) rolling onto her back and staring at the ceiling, anything to not look at that fucking clock anymore. She wondered when _that_ would stop, when she'd stop seeing a clock or the time on her phone and automatically doing the math, immediately jumping back three hours, like some sort of psychic time traveller, wondering where Amy was at that precise moment.

It was just what she did, it was how she thought, everything always tracing back, somehow, in some twisted connect the dots pattern, to Amy. Karma had done it for years.

Eight in the morning here, so five there, so still asleep. Maybe alone. Maybe not.

Eleven here so eight there so Amy was in her first class cause she liked to get them done early and out of the way. Somehow college had turned the blonde into something of a morning person (in that, at least, she didn't want to murder the morning sun) and _that_ had always been the _one_ thing Karma couldn't wrap her head around.

Until, you know, that fucking rock.

Two in the afternoon here so eleven there, so lunch time (which, with Amy, was really _any_ time) and that was when Amy hung out with her friends, with Jess and Jodi and Becks and by 'hung out' Karma totally meant 'annoyed the shit out of them by spending most ( _all_ ) of her time texting NYC.'

You'll never get dates, they used to tell her. You'll never get dates or make new friends if you're constantly on your damn phone.

Karma remembers sophomore year, remembers taking matters into her own hands and not answering lunch time texts. She _said_ it was because she got a job (she _did_ ) and had to work the afternoon shift (she _didn't_ ) and it was too hard ( _not_ texting was harder) and it would be good for both of them (mostly for _Amy_ cause dates and new friends and _dates_ but only if she put her phone down and she'd _never_ do _that_ on her own.) Karma thought Amy believed her, at least a little, but also suspected there was a guy involved there too.

There was, of course. But he only lasted about a week, which was, ironically, only a few days less than Karma made it before she cracked and answered _every single_ lunch time text.

There were fewer then, of course. Amy, you see, had taken advantage of her little more than a week and the phone she put down and the time and she'd met a nice girl in her writing class the week before and they'd already hung out twice in just those nine days. A nice girl with a pretty white lab coat and thing for adorkable blondes and a fucking rock in her top dresser drawer just _waiting_ for a finger to slip its way onto.

Karma stares at the clock on the Twain's wall and doesn't really listen to the guy on stage before her and tries so hard to not do the math. Because she knows, in the end, it'll be the same as it was that day.

Six o'clock. Amy should have landed by now. A whole country away.

But then, just as now, Karma knows…

It may as well have been another fucking world.

She doesn't hear the guy finish up and she only half hears Ivy take the stage and mumble something into the mike about the pride of Hester High (what a fucking _joke_ ) but she _does_ see the spotlight, she does see it land just in front of her feet, does see the way it follows her to that stool as she settles in and rests her guitar on her lap.

And for three minutes and eleven seconds, she can pretend and for three minutes and eleven seconds, she's OK again.

Karma knows better than to think it will ever be more than that. She _can't_ believe.

She _knows_.


	2. Chapter 2

In the end (and God how sick she is of thinking of things as the _end_ ), it's technical difficulties that do it. It's a flick of a switch and a flash of a light, it's the spotlight dropping out and the house lights flickering, a moment, maybe not even _that_ , a _second_ just as she's about to take her seat on the stool at the center of the stage that causes her to _nearly_ miss her seat and _nearly_ drop her guitar and _nearly_ curse him out of habit.

Old ones and dying hard and all that. Liam fucking Booker and all _that_.

He's in the back, the _far_ back, as far back as the Twain goes, so far removed from the stage that he probably thinks she doesn't see him, that she didn't see him the _last_ time or the time before _that_. He probably thinks he's safe out there, in the dark, that he'll be able to slip away (like she did, once upon a time) (though she doubts he'll leave a ring or a note) (and she doubts she'll care even a little that he's gone) once the song is over. He probably imagines he'll be able to disappear back into the Austin night and then off to wherever the hell he was before _here_ (last she'd heard was Europe with some _girl_ , but she pays little mind to the gossip, tuning Ivy and Tommy out whenever old high school names come up.)

(Though she does keep an ear out for _one_ name.)

(One she never hears and that doesn't surprise her, not in the least.)

Karma stares, maybe a beat or two too long, into the dark, into the spot he fills in it, swearing that she can still make out the outline of him in the shadows, like a hollowed out spot in the night that she still (fucking _still_ ) remembers all the curves of and shades and twists and turns of and yeah, _that_ pisses her off. She can still remember _him,_ but Amy…

 _She_ fades every day. And that's fucking _bullshit_ because Amy _doesn't_ fade, no matter how hard Karma tries to make her, no matter how much work (and it's _a lot_ ) she puts into trying to forget and yeah, she knows she _has_ to, she knows it's the only way she's ever going to pick up and move on (and let's face it, scurrying back to Austin and living two houses down from her parents and praying every time she goes to the grocery store or the drug store or the corner store or _anywhere_ that she doesn't run into Farrah isn't even _close_ to moving on) but that doesn't make it any easier. There was a time, not that long ago, when Karma couldn't have forgotten Amy if she tried (and she couldn't have imagined _wanting to_ ) and now she spends most _every day_ trying, but it's harder than she ever imagined.

"You have any idea," she asked Ashlyn one night (or more than _one_ night, more than one drunken or crying or drunkenly crying call or Skype session, far _more_ than one.) "You have _any_ idea how hard it is to _not_ think about someone?"

"I'm guessing hard?" Ashlyn said ( _snapped_ ) and Karma heard _it_ then, in her voice. It wasn't anger, not really, but it _was_ weariness, it _was_ one step from _hanging_ up and _giving_ up and _breaking_ up (friendship wise, of course) and she'd heard it before, the last few weeks ( _months_ ) before she left, before she packed her bags and tucked her tail and fled back to Austin.

It's just a break, Karma said. Some time and some space and look how well that worked for Amy when she went off with the _Pussies_ and maybe, Karma reasoned (and it was all so _logical_ ) it would help her too, maybe it would help her…what was the word? What was it Amy always said?

Oh… yeah. _Evolve_.

Karma had always thought that was code for I got over you', for 'I don't love you anymore', for 'I finally realized the kind of person you _really_ are.'

In the end (and she's so fucking _sick_ of the _Goddamned_ end), she wasn't wrong.

"I just need some time," she told Ash and they both pretended time was a temporary thing, a finite amount and not forever. "I need to be somewhere that isn't here because here is… _her_ … and it doesn't matter if it's a new apartment and a new bed and a new… everything."

Ashlyn had, Karma knew, wanted to argue. She wanted Karma to stay, she wanted Karma to realize that if _NYC_ was Amy then Austin… well… _Austin_ was going to be a special circle of hell. She wanted Karma to see it, to know that this wasn't the way, that there was still something to be saved, and she kept telling her that over and over and over.

"You have to try, Karma. _You_ have to be the one to reach out," she said. "And maybe it can't be fixed, not perfectly, but it doesn't have to be _done_. If you just _try_ , you and Amy can still be… _something_."

Something.

 _Some thing_.

And _that_ was just _the_ thing. Karma didn't want to be _some thing_ with Amy. She'd had a taste (figuratively _and_ literally) of _something,_ of the something that was more than what they'd always been, of what it was that lay past best friends and even past family. It was all the things Karma had spent years imagining (even if she never once acknowledged it) and now… well… now there was no way they could ever be _that_ again and there was no way they could ever even be what they'd always been and Karma didn't even want to.

She'd had it all. She couldn't _take_ less. She just _couldn't._ So she had to move on, she had to try to live without her, she had to _forget_. And that, she had discovered...

"It's not hard," she told Ash. "It's fucking _impossible_. _That's_ what it is. Impossible. You'd think it would be easy, you'd think it would be simple to forget someone, to not think of them, right? All you have to do is _don't_. Just _don't_."

Just don't. Just don't think of her. Just don't look for her (like around every corner and down every street), just don't drive by her mother's house in case she'd come home for a visit (she hadn't), just don't dive for your phone every time you get a message cause it _might_ be her (it never is and if fucking _Tommy_ texts you one more time…), just _don't_.

Just don't check her Facebook page for updates, don't try and decipher statuses without contexts, don't wonder how many of them are about you.

 _April 6: It has to get better._

 _April 15: Certainties: Death and taxes and I'll find a way to fuck it all up._

 _May 2: I miss you. And how fucking stupid does that make me?_

 _May 31: Fuck you. Just… God… fuck you._

Sometimes, Karma had to admit, she didn't really _have_ to wonder if it was about her.

Except, even _then_ , even when it was plain as day, even when it was so fucking obvious, it really _wasn't_. She didn't _know_ , she didn't have the first clue who else might have pissed Amy off, or who else she might be missing. Karma didn't know (but God, did she _want_ to) if Maisie had forgiven her like she said she would, if she'd taken Amy back, if they'd had some tearful reunion in the airport and a screaming match in the apartment ( _their_ apartment) (and Karma didn't even know if _that_ was true anymore) or if Amy still had that fucking rock and if it had finally found its way to her finger.

She didn't _know_.

And nothing, absolutely _nothing_ killed Karma more than that. Nothing wormed its way into her mind more often, nothing kept her up at night more frequently. There was nothing about any of this that immobilized her, that made her lay in her bed staring up at the ceiling of her bedroom, the one she barely furnished in the house she made just enough to rent, the one that felt more temporary, like more of a way station on her journey to… _wherever_ … than her dorm room ever had.

She stares into the darkness of the Twain, into that spot shaped like a man (if Liam's _that_ ) and imagines him, pictures him talking to her after her song, envisions him swooping in, that Booker charm on blast, his hand covering hers on the table, his eyes never moving from her face, his attention solely for her.

In high school, that would have been enough to… well…

 _Thunderbox_

(and missing the signs) (can't forget that) (missing the signs and missing _Amy_ and fuck all, it would be so much easier to blame _him_ , wouldn't it?)

Karma would like to think she's more… _evolved_ (and there _it_ is)... than that now. She'd like to think she wouldn't compound the biggest mistake of her life by revisiting the _second_ biggest and she'd like to believe she's not so desperate and lonely and broken that she'd do _that_.

But all she _can_ think is of him in that room, the one she hides in, the one with the blank and empty walls, the ones she doesn't cover with pictures or mementos cause every one of _them_ has got Amy in it or is connected to Amy or she's found, through some ridiculous six degrees of Raudenfeld way, to _make_ it about Amy, just so she can have an excuse to pack it away, to forget it, to pretend it doesn't exist (not unlike, she figures, what Amy's done to _her_ by now.)

Karma thinks of Liam there, in that room and in that bed and oh fuck _no_ , she's not going there and she tears her eyes from that spot, refusing to spend even one more second looking at him, even in the dark. She hopes he'll be gone by the time Tommy brings the lights back up, that he makes a quick and clean getaway, assuming she never even knew he was there.

She hopes for it, but Karma doubts he _will_. Liam's never been one for going quietly, after all, so she settles on the stool with her guitar in her lap and tries (as unsuccessfully as she tries to do most things that are _good_ for her lately) to not let her mind wander, to not remember him anymore, to not think about 'back in the day' and the girl she was because, if there's one thing Karma's learned about remembering _that_ girl?

That _always_ leads to thinking about the _woman_ she became. And that _never_ ends with anything but her curled up in a sobbing and shaking ball with her heart in tatters and Amy's name on her lips.

And sometimes even _she's_ shocked by how dramatic she's become, even in her own head. It's better for songwriting, it's why there's a drawer full of pain and feels and love and sorrys in her apartment, aching to be sung.

Like that'll ever happen.

Karma tunes back into the moment, into the crowd, into the song in her head and she strums the opening note, lightly working the strings until her fingers fumble, until they slip and fall from the frets and she hangs her head and tries (again, not all that successfully) to breathe. She knows it will pass, that moment, that split second when she's not _her_ , when she's that _other_ her, the terrified one, the one that couldn't do this in a million years, not with _him_ there, not with _any of them_ there.

Fuck _that_.

 _They_ don't matter.

That her, that _other_ her couldn't do this in a million years without _her_ there. And it's not just the guitar or the singing or the playing or the writing or the fucking _breathing_.

It's everything.

Karma takes a deep breath and tells herself it will pass, that it always does, that yeah, it happens every week (six in a row now) and she knows all she has to do is get that first note, get through that first chord and it will all come back to her. All the other notes, all the other chords, the spots where she holds the beat in her throat and trembles it out, the moments when anyone who's ever known her even a little would know _exactly_ what ( _who_ ) she's singing about.

Ivy knows. Tommy knows. Her mother and father and Zen (who came one week) ( _one_ ) know and Karma's sure there's been a half dozen or more Hesterians who've come once or twice, to rubberneck at the Karma-wreck and she knows they've all _known_. But no one's ever said it cause they might think they know, but they barely knew her _then_ and they can't be _sure_ so they've stayed silent or told her how good she was or said she ought to be on stage somewhere, some place bigger, some place more _star_ and less _Austin_.

But now _he's_ here and he's known her far more than a _little_ and one of these times he's gonna stay and they're gonna talk and Karma's gonna have to try and be the woman she wants to be instead of the one that welcomes him into her life and her bed and then it's just a slippery fucking slope down down down and she just prays to God that night isn't _this_ night.

Seeing him, _just_ seeing him, it brings up things she'd rather stayed buried. The first time he ever heard her sing, the way she poured her heart into it, trying so hard to fucking _will_ him to understand what she meant, what she couldn't _say_ but she could _sing_. She hates thinking about that, she fucking _hates_ it cause thinking about that is a fucking _trap_ , it's a road to hell paved with three chords and the truth because she _knows_ that wasn't just the first time he heard her (not that he really _did,_ Liam _never_ _heard her_ ), it was the first time _she_ didn't hear _Amy._ The first time the truth stared her in the face and she didn't see it.

Or chose not to.

Even now, even after _everything_ (which is total code for even after leaving Amy in her bed and running away like a scared little girl) (so, you know, like _her_ ) Karma's still not sure which. And _fuck_ how she hates that, how she hates that she's not some _other_ Karma, she's still _that_ Karma, that scared child and she _hates_ that Karma, probably even more than Amy does.

She feels the strings on her fingers and the eyes (so many of them, out there in the dark) all on her and it's _wrong_ , it's all so so _wrong_. She came tonight to sing of freedom, of moving on, of trying (unsuccessfully but still _trying_ ) to move the fuck on. Three minutes and eleven seconds of _hope_.

But even Karma's hypocrisy has limits and she can't _sing_ what she doesn't _feel_. So her fingers work the string and she finds the beat and the melody and the key in her head and the fear, it all melts away even though Amy's not there and she never will be again. But that hasn't mattered once in the last six weeks and it doesn't matter now.

Karma sings to her anyway. And sings of the truth (first time for everything and all), of the futility of it all. The absolute fucking _impossibility_.

 _I will remember you_

 _Will you remember me?_

 _Don't let your life pass you by_

 _Weep not for the memories_

 _Remember the good times that we had?_

 _I let them slip away from us when things got bad_

 _How clearly I first saw you smilin' in the sun_

 _Wanna feel your warmth upon me, I wanna be the one_

 _I will remember you_

 _Will you remember me?_

 _Don't let your life pass you by_

 _Weep not for the memories_

 _I'm so tired but I can't sleep_

 _Standin' on the edge of something much too deep_

 _It's funny how we feel so much but we cannot say a word_

 _We are screaming inside, but we can't be heard_

 _But I will remember you_

 _Will you remember me?_

 _Don't let your life pass you by_

 _Weep not for the memories_

 _I'm so afraid to love you, but more afraid to lose_

 _Clinging to a past that doesn't let me choose_

 _Once there was a darkness, deep and endless night_

 _You gave me everything you had, oh you gave me light_

 _And I will remember you_

 _Will you remember me?_

 _Don't let your life pass you by_

 _Weep not for the memories_

 _And I will remember you_

 _Will you remember me?_

 _Don't let your life pass you by_

 _Weep not for the memories_

 _Weep not for the memories_

There's a hush, at the end, as there always is. Ivy calls it the 'oh _shit_ ' moment, that second or two (that feels like a fucking _week_ to Karma, up there on stage) when the audience tries to get their heads around it, when they try to truly take it all in.

"You're good," Ivy said to her after the first week, after Karma made it (barely) through an acoustic version of _Straight Up_ (and yes, that was such a _bad_ choice.) "You're _good_ and people need to let it sink in. They need a moment, you know, to really get that they got to be here for _that_."

That moment comes, every time, and every time Karma forgets what Ivy said and she forgets the week before and she forgets the applause and the cheers and all she fills that space, that moment in time, herself.

 _They hated it._

 _They hate_ me _._

 _Run. Get off the stage. Run run run._

Somehow, every week, she _stays_. God help her, _now_ she stays. And this week, like all the others, that silence is filled. Not by her, not by every painful think rattling around in her mind, but by applause. Thunderous (as thunderous as the Twain can get) applause and people standing and cheering (and sometimes, like tonight, crying) and it's everything Karma ever thought would make her happy.

The love of a cheering crowd. The dream guy right there waiting. She's the belle of the fucking ball, the princess, the queen of all she surveys.

She locks eyes with Liam (cause _of course_ she does) and he's clapping and smiling and for a second, just _one_ , she thinks it's _him_ , the guy she knew, the one that's gonna lay on the charm and make her feel special and make her feel… _something_ (and not _some thing_ )... and she'll find a way to explain her blank walls and maybe he won't even care and ( _maybe_ ) he'll even help her fill them.

Just for a second. Just _one_.

Then she sees his eyes and she knows. This time? He _heard_.


	3. Chapter 3

**Sorry this took so long. Been having a bit of a rough time lately, and this story takes a lot out of me. And for those worried I won't make Karmy endgame (again), all I can promise is that Karma and Amy will be together in some way by the end of the story.**

Amy stands on the street across from her building and stares up up up, a hand over her eyes to block the sun. It's the same balcony that she sees (though not the _same_ one she _wants_ to see but she's only got herself to blame for _that_ ), the same apartment, the same home (or the same as close to a home as she had since the moment she hopped that flight) that she left three months ago.

She left. Three months. And now she's back, hoping against hope that everything hasn't changed, that the rugs haven't all been pulled out from under her and everyone will welcome her back with open arms and yeah, Amy's starting to spot a pattern in her life.

Shit hits the fan (usually because of her) (and no, she's not sure if _her_ means Karma or _her_ and, really, she's even less sure that it even matters) and then she runs. She packs a bag, she hops a flight, she jumps on a bus, she fucking _walks_ if she has to, just so long as she leaves, so long as she disappears, so long as she gets gone.

Can't blame me, she thinks. It worked. Once.

 _Sure_ it did (and yeah, that sarcastic voice in her head sounds a little - a _lot_ \- like Lauren.) It worked so well that she _never_ ran back to Karma again, she _never_ threw away everything (every _one_ ) that mattered to her and chased some insane fantasy across the country, she never let herself fall down _that_ rabbit hole…

Oh. Wait.

She knows that's not really fair, that it isn't _exactly_ how it all went (the _fuck_ it's not) and even _if_ it is (it _so_ is) it's really got nothing to do with that summer. Leaving town, riding the _Pussy Express_ (Shane's term, not hers) (though it was, she has to admit, not altogether inaccurate) out of Austin and, more importantly, out of _Karmy_ (out of being _half_ of them cause, honestly, that was her only shot at being a _whole_ her) it _did_ work, after a fashion. She _was_ better and they _were_ fixed and she did evolve and she did move on and so did Karma and it was Amy's running that had done it.

And so what if now it all seemed like something of a waste?

Or more than something.

So it had worked once and she figured that meant it would work _again_ (and again) (and again) and so first it was to California and yes, that was for _school_ and yes, it was what she'd always wanted (even more than Clement and she'd _wanted_ that even if it was more about the _who_ than the _where_ ) and no, she hadn't moved _just_ to get away from Karma and the room they would share that would turn into the apartment they'd rent that would eventually become the houses they'd own and the lives they'd share and the fucking perfect _Karmy_ of it all.

She'd gone to escape it _all_. Karma and her mom and Karma and Lauren and Karma and every bit of pain and misery and _ugh_ that was tied to Austin and Karma and for a chance to become whoever the hell Amy Raudenfeld really was and did she mention Karma?

Amy had fled to the West Coast to escape it and then, inexplicably (oh, it was _explicable_ ) she'd flown all the way across the country to dive headlong back into it and fuck up _everything_.

Yeah, there was a pattern alright. A pattern of screw ups and poor choices and attempts to fix things that only made those choices _worse_ and now all Amy can do is stand on a street corner and gather her courage and hope that three rum and sun soaked months without an ex-anything or an almost-this or a nearly-that or a _Karma_ anywhere was enough to get her head (and her heart) right and enough to help her fix it and enough…

Enough for _her_.

Amy believes. She really does.

But that belief? Well... if it's motivated just a little (or _more_ than a little) by a fear (a fucking paralyzing, crippling, mind numbing and heart breaking one) of the alternative? Of what might happen if it isn't enough, if three months and a plane ticket didn't change anything, if she fucked it all up beyond repair?

Nothing wrong with that. Nothing at all. But, maybe, if it's all the same, she'll stand here for just a little longer. Gathering that courage and all.

* * *

She shouldn't be here. She knows that, knows it so well that she's even said it. Repeatedly.

"I shouldn't be here." Silence. "It's a bad idea." Nothing but air. "I should really go. I think I am. Yeah. I'm gonna go."

Maisie _says_ it but she doesn't _move_ and Lauren _knows_ she won't and that's why she just keeps on keeping on with ignoring her (every time) (not just ignoring but _ignoring_ ) and yeah, it's been three months and yeah they've gotten close (frighteningly so) and she's come to understand a lot about Lauren but Maisie still doesn't know how she does _that,_ how she executes a silent treatment that makes her feel like she's back in Sister Margaret's classroom and on the wrong end of the Glare of God.

How does someone so tiny render her incapable of even _moving_ without even saying a word and _really_ , how does anyone consider Lauren _tiny_ in _any_ way cause… _Lauren_?

"I shouldn't be here," she says again and Lauren ignores her, _again_ , but Maisie's stubborn and she won't take no (or silence that translates to a no) for an answer. "This is supposed to be you and Amy fixing things between you," she says. "This is _your_ reunion. I should just go back to the apartment and -"

"And _what_?" Lauren cuts her off without ever looking up from the vase of sunflowers she's meticulously arranging and rearranging on the dining room table. "And sit on the couch for tiny breaks between pacing the floor wondering when she's going to come and dialing her number over and over and over and never actually calling?"

Maisie's hand clutches her phone in her pocket.

"Cause, yeah," Lauren says. "That sounds like a _great_ plan and all. So much better than being here when she comes home and getting to be the first face she sees. _Way_ better than having me here to help diffuse the tension a little." She pokes the last flower into place and finally shoots a glance in Maisie's direction. "Door's right over there," she says.

Maisie doesn't move and they both knew she wouldn't. But _wouldn't_ isn't the same as not _wanting_ to and they both know there's nothing Maisie _wants_ more than to bolt for that door, to run down the stairs and hail the first cab she can find and head back across town to her ( _their_ ) ( _her_ ) ( _fuck_ ) apartment.

There's nothing she wants more. Except… _maybe_ …

She shakes her head and drops down onto the couch with an audible (and _so_ obviously obvious that it _screams_ 'talk to me about it') sigh that Lauren hears _and_ recognizes _and_ (like everything else Maisie's said for the last two hours) ignores. Mostly.

Lauren leans against the table, crossing her arms in front of her chest and regards the other woman. She's seen Maisie in every state imaginable the last few months. Happy and light and relieved to be drama free, at least for a moment. Sad and miserable and a heartbeat away from calling Amy and begging her to come home right fucking _now_. Drunk and angry and a heartbeat away from fucking _walking_ to NYC just for the _chance_ to kick Karma's ass.

Lauren's familiar with that last one. Intimately. Her knuckles still hurt and she's pretty sure Karma's always going to have a little scar next to her lip but the bitch had it coming and no, she's not planning on telling Maisie (or _anyone_ ) about _that_.

She spent the summer watching Maisie go through the stages of grief, flitting back and forth between them, spending most of her time wondering (frequently loudly and drunkenly and late at fucking nightly) if Amy was down there 'banging her way 'cross Brazil, soaking in all those asses cause she's an ass girl, you knew that, right? She _loves_ the butt. Fucking _loves_ it.'

Lauren _hadn't_ known that (though it did explain some of the Karma attraction) and she didn't really _want_ to know that and wrecking Maisie to the point where she shared _that_ so got added to the list of things Lauren was going to smack Amy upside the head for as soon as she got back.

Right after she hugged her and held her tight and told her if she ever left again she would hunt her down and bring her home personally.

"If she wanted to see me, she'd have let _me_ know she was back," Maisie says. She's sunk back into the couch, pulling her knees up to her chest and Lauren's seen _this_ before and fuck all, she can't let Maisie drown herself in it, not with Amy _on her way_. "She texted _you_ and not _me_ , so clearly - "

"Clearly," Lauren says, cutting her off. "For someone who's supposed to be so smart, you are very, very, very dumb." She walks to the couch and pulls on Maisie's knees, guiding both of her feet to the floor. " _I_ texted her and she _replied_. That's different."

"That's semantics."

Lauren sighs. "Maybe it is. Maybe it isn't. Or…" There's a knock on the door and she smiles as Maisie goes pale. "Or maybe it was just me stalling long enough that you ran out of time."

* * *

When she's gathered about as much courage as she thinks she can, Amy drops her eyes from the balcony and starts across the street.

She makes it about two steps.

So much for fucking courage…

She thought she was ready for this, she really did. She'd rehearsed it all, planned everything out, nailed down every word. She knew her lines backwards and forwards and all she had to worry about was if Lauren and Maisie would give her the chance, if they'd listen long enough for her to get through it all.

Yeah. That was _all_ she had to worry about.

It had all seemed so clear and so obvious and so simple in Brazil. Everything just fell into place and Amy was amazed she'd never seen it before. (She'd also never had a rum infused epiphany on a beach before _either_ , but those two things were so _not_ connected.) What it all came down to, she'd realized, was that it was all about the _had_ to's.

She _had_ to leave that summer if there was going to be any chance for her and Karma to save their friendship.

She _had_ to go to Cali if there was ever going to be a chance for her to be her own person.

She _had_ to go to NYC if there was ever going to be a chance for her to commit to Maisie or, assuming Maisie broke up with her after she found out about going to NYC (a fairly safe assumption, Amy thought), anyone who came after Maisie (not that she wanted there to be an _after_ Maisie because she didn't, and she'd known that even as she hopped the flight and even as it had touched down and even, God help her, as she'd walked down the concourse and then she'd seen Karma and well…)

Yeah. Well…

There was, Amy had realized, a lot of _well_ … in her life and a lot of it (pretty much every fucking bit) had something to do with Austin and by Austin she meant her feelings and by her feelings she meant the unresolved ones and by the unresolved ones…

 _Fuck it._

Karma. She meant Karma. By _all_ of it, she meant _Karma_.

All that 'well' in her life had translated into nothing _going_ well, not really, not even if it seemed to be going _perfectly_ on the surface, because underneath it all, there was always that fucking 'well..'

College was great and she didn't miss the could've beens of Clement and Karma at all.

Well…

She had a connection with Maisie she'd never felt with anyone.

Well…

Maisie was in love with her and she was in love with Maisie and they were going to be married and she was going to make it to the altar first and piss Lauren right the hell off and it was all she could have hoped for _and_ more.

Well…

Well.

It was always there, _right_ there, right beneath the surface and Amy couldn't figure out how no one else ever saw it, how they didn't see it rippling under her skin like some creepy sci-fi movie alien brain bug and yeah, _that's_ what the… _whatever_ … between her and Karma had become. A fucking brain bug digging under her skin and itching her and driving her nuts and always burrowing in at _exactly_ the wrong moment.

It had taken breaking three hearts (hers, Maisie's, and Lauren's) (and, she figured _maybe_ Karma's too) (but she gave absolutely _no_ fucks about _that_ ), running here and there and everywhere, breaking Maisie's heart _again_ and then three months in Brazil. But Amy was sure she'd finally done it.

The bug was dead. Fucking squished and squashed and there were bug guts all over the wall and no, she wasn't about to clean those guts up because she wanted a permanent fucking reminder ( _needed_ one now that the note was gone) and yes, she was taking this bug metaphor just a bit too far but then again, _that_ was something of a pattern with her too.

She stands there, on that corner, and she can feel the pull, the seductive call of the run. It would be easier, she knows and while Amy typically avoids easier (see: her entire fucking _life_ ), she's come to realize that it does sometimes come in handy. Like, she thinks, maybe, right now.

 _Just turn around_

 _Just run_

 _Back to Brazil or Austin or Alaska. I hear it's lovely there this time of year_

Yeah. Lovely. Amy stands on the sidewalk and stares up again, looking at that balcony. She can really only see the bottom and the railing and the string (tiny as it may be) of fairy lights twined around the iron (and yes, she _knows_ it's really too far and too bright and she can't really see a single fucking light but she _knows_ and that's what _counts_ ). She spent so long, _way_ longer than she would have expected, remembering _that_ , remembering the way the lights hung just so, the way they'd twinkle at night.

She spent so many nights staring at them, gazing into the glow until the light danced in the tears in her eyes. She told Hank about them, their last day in Brazil. "It'll be nice," she said. "Nice to watch them glow with clear eyes."

Nice. Not easier. And not… well…

Nice.

Brazil had been nice. Austin had, briefly, been nice. Here, with Lauren (but not Maisie) had been nice and here, without both of them, had been… not so nice. Those were the nights she spent alone, sitting on that balcony on the harder chairs and with the smaller table and it was peaceful and it was quiet and she'd always figured if she couldn't have the home she wanted with the one she wanted it _with_ , well…

This one would do.

Three months. It had been three months and she'd had fun and her dad had been great and she'd never felt more relaxed and it had taken her all of three _days_ to come to one inescapable conclusion.

Would do _wouldn't_ do anymore.

Would do _hadn't_ done, not even a little and all it _had_ done was drive a wedge (or two or three or six) between her and the two people she loved most in the world. And yeah, she could fucking run and yeah, it would be easier.

But easier just wouldn't fucking do, either.

She crosses the street (and damn near dies doing it) against the light and takes the stairs up to the apartment two at a time, suddenly in a hurry and she's out of breath by the time she reaches the fifth floor. There wasn't much time or need (or desire) for exercise the last three months, not when there were drinks to be had and tourists to mingle with and girls (so fucking many) to flirt with, except _they_ did most (all) of the flirting and Amy did most of the smiling and the laughing and the blushing (so much of _that_ ) and then all of the retreating, all of the heading back to her room.

Always alone. _Always._

Maybe, she'd thought (more than once) she wasn't _technically_ spoken for. Maybe, she'd thought she was free to do _what_ she wanted with _who_ she wanted.

But _who_ she wanted wasn't there and _what_ she wanted _wasn't_ to be free and yeah, maybe things had been… weird… when she left. But weird wasn't bad and weird wasn't over and weird was so much fucking better than anything (or anyone) she could have had on the islands.

In Brazil, weird had meant no (to the flirts) and alone (for sleeps every night) and hope (for when she came back.) And now? Here?

Weird means reaching the fifth floor and finding her _who_ standing in Lauren's door talking to… well… someone _else_ and weird means fear and weird means thinking that maybe?

She should have fucking run.


End file.
